Hit and Run
by Adali
Summary: He thinks he might be winning, because even if there's more of them than of him, he's also killing more of them than they are of him. Zorocentric. ZoNaSa. Rated for gore.


_I know, I'm terrible. Two song-inspired fics in a row. I'm working on real ones, I promise. They're just taking a bit of time. Plus there's the annoyance of bouncing them between two computers so they can be posted. Not that it matters..._

* * *

_Now flying through the air  
Maybe living, maybe dying  
In this motor crash it's you who comes to mind  
Don't we always wish we had more time  
_Hit and Run - Third Eye Blind

He thinks he might be winning, because even though there's more of them than of him, he's also killing more of them than they are of him. He's running through them, parting them like the sea against his blades: the sea parts, lets him through, then closes in behind to attack from there too, choking him, stealing his air. There's noise all around, screams, curses, the clash of steel on steel and sometimes the wet sound of steel on flesh, but he's in a quiet place. He can hear all that, and he can hear other sounds too; there's the whisper of the breath of each of his enemies, the humming of the ship underfoot, his katana singing of strength, of beauty, of the deaths of his enemies. There's a man up ahead who can hear that singing too; he can hear the song of the man's own sword, cleaving through its allies to reach him, and he wonders if he might actually die this time…

.oOo.

His life doesn't flash before his eyes, but he's dying all the same. Maybe it would be good if it did: it would provide a distraction right now, when he'd rather not be thinking about what it means that the pain is starting to fade. Perhaps he'd see it if he closed his eyes but, even if he didn't, at least he wouldn't be able to see his own guts anymore. He keeps his eyes resolutely open. He's not some damn pansy that's too afraid to face his own death. No one would know if he did, since he's the only one still alive here. But he'd know. And when they find him, they'll know, because there's no way he'll be able to pretend he died in his sleep. Not here, not like this.

Besides, if he did close his eyes, if he did see the rerun of his life, what would be the point? He already knows he has unfinished business. There's a man at that place, not waiting exactly but expecting him, so that this can somehow be finished. Dying now, leaving that fight unfinished - hardly even begun, really - is so messy.

The blood loss is taking its toll. His eyes are still open, so in a way he can still see the listless torn sails and bloody deck of the ship, but they seem to have been replaced by other scenes. Hallucinations, his brain tells him helpfully, but knowing what they are doesn't make them go away.

He sees Nami sitting at her map desk, a half finished page laid out before her and a pile of sketched notes to one side. There's a mug of cold tea on one corner of the desk, so she must have been here for a while. She has her elbows on the map, and her head in her hands. He tries to look closer, and can't help but be relieved when he sees that she's not crying, although the way she's shaking is worrying. With a choking sound, she collapses onto the desk, burying her face in her folded arms. He tries to reach out to her, irrationally thinking he can help, but his arm is heavy and lifeless, and already she's fading away.

Now he's in the familiar kitchen, with its intoxicating array of smells. Sometimes it's spicy in here, sometimes fruity, other times there's the bitter scent of herbs. Never disgusting, though, only appetizing and somehow reflective of whatever mood the stupid cook is in. The shitty cook, lord of the sanctum of culinary wonders, is there, standing so his face is turned away. He's chopping onions furiously, not noticing that they're already cut so fine as to be nearly a powder. The cook shakes himself and stares ruefully at the onions.

Sanji fades away too, and the imagined smell of onions is replaced by the very real scent of blood and refuse. He can taste it in his mouth, too; metallic blood, bile, and that awful taste that is unique to death. He's scented it before, caught a taste of it once or twice, but never this strong.

He'd groan if he could, but he's not sure he's even breathing anymore. He can't figure out how things got like this. There couldn't have been more than a hundred… two, maybe. There had only been lots of them, not an overwhelming number. There was that one guy, with his death's head and strange curved sword. He would have been an interesting opponent any day; with a thousand of his friends pressing in around them, he'd been a challenge.

The cheap bastard had lost, and he was still trying to steal Zoro's life. With this rip in his gut, he couldn't even stagger away, despite being the victor. It was offensive to think that they both might die here: Zoro was clearly better, so why should he die here like that trash? What a bloody stupid way to run the world.

There's so much left unfinished. There was that promise, and that challenge, and… yeah, them too. They're back again, not noticing him even though they seem only a foot away. They stand together, looking away into the distance somewhere, as though searching for something. The crap cook says something, and the witch answers. The breeze snatches their words away, leaving him with only a buzzing in his ears.

Their forms flicker rapidly, in and out, as the hallucination threatens to break up. He'd like it to stay, he thinks. He'd like to think that they're with them when he goes, even if they aren't actually. He thinks they should be here. If he'd opened his damn stupid mouth and said something, they might have been. Instead he'd made himself train harder so he wouldn't imagine he needed their help. He doesn't want their help now, just them.

The figures are back, as solid as before. Their faces are inches from his, filling his vision. "Shitty dumbass marimo," says one, the words like a kick in the teeth.

"Stupid bastard," says the other, the syllables ringing out like a slap. Now that he has no trouble hearing them, he wants them to shut up. He'll make them shut up, he promises himself, just as soon as he's through with dying.

.oOo.

He's always heard that being dead hurts a lot less than dying. He's going to kill whatever stupid bastard told him that: let him see for himself how wrong he is. He hurts like hell right now. The taste of blood and bile is still there, but death has taken its mark out of the mix. No sense in telling him he's going to die now, he supposes.

There's a heavy bang and cold hits him like a battering ram in his destroyed abdomen. He wants to curl away from the blow, but his muscles won't respond. They scream out in concert with his guts. Another bang, and it stops.

It seems there's still enough adrenaline in his system to heighten his sense of smell. His eyes won't open to show him the enemy he can hear pacing towards him, but he can smell them. There's rain and smoke, gunpowder and the sharp scent of fire.

He hears a rustling above his head. There's at least two of them in the room. Two or two thousand, it makes no difference. If he can find the strength to beat one, he'll beat them all; if not, he's already dead anyway.

"Go get some sleep," a silky voice says. He thinks he ought to know that voice: he's sure he heard it while he was still alive, saying stupid shit just like it is now. Whoever it is, they ought to know there's not much point in sleeping once you're dead.

He wants to call the voice a stupid bastard, tell it to go die. What comes out is somewhere between a grunt and a groan, and sounds weak to his ears.

A second voice, beautiful and dark like a fallen angel, speaks. "So you've decided not to die after all, stupid bastard."


End file.
